Читать книгу The Hate Trail: A Walt Slade Western - Bradford Scott - Страница 4

THE TRAIL END proved to be a typical cowtown saloon, bigger and better appointed than most. There was a long bar, a dance floor with a small raised platform to accommodate the orchestra, poker tables, two roulette wheels, a faro bank, a lunch counter, and tables for more leisurely diners.

Although it was still only midafternoon, the bar was well crowded, mostly with cowhands, and everybody appeared to be excitedly discussing the recent gunplay.

Sitting at a nearby table putting away a surrounding was Sheriff Brian Carter. He intercepted Slade’s glance and beckoned.

“Sit down there where I can keep an eye on you,” he ordered as Slade drew near. “Where’d you say you came from?”

“I didn’t,” Slade replied, accepting the vacant chair, “but if you’re real anxious to know, I rode in from the west.”

“So!” the sheriff exclaimed. “Got chased outa Oldham County and decided to give Potter a whirl, eh?”

“Well, the sheriff over there did think it might be a good idea for me to move on,” Slade replied smilingly. He refrained from mentioning that the sheriff of Oldham County was an old friend who thought that Slade’s “reason” for being in the section might possibly be hanging around Amarillo.

“I don’t doubt it! I don’t doubt it!” Sheriff Carter agreed heartily. “That hellion over there is always sending me trouble.” He beckoned a waiter.

“Fatten him up so he can’t slip between the bars,” he directed.

“I’ll do that, Sheriff,” the grinning waiter promised, adding sotto voce, but not too sotto to Slade, “Try and get him to lock you up, feller. We send over the meals for the prisoners and fellers have been knowed to spit on the sidewalk just for a chance at getting free helpin’s from the Trail End.”

“You’ll get a chance at some free helpin’s if you don’t keep your thumb outa my bowl of soup!” the sheriff declared. The waiter chuckled, took Slade’s order and hurried to the kitchen.

“Learn any more about who started the shindig and why?” Slade asked. The sheriff shook his head.

“Best I can gather, somebody made a misdeal,” he replied. “Those six hellions came in here together. A couple of ’em got in a poker game. There was a row and the other four, who were at the bar, joined in. I ain’t sure just which side really started it. Card players are usually close-mouthed and you can’t get ’em to talk. Prefer to settle their differences themselves.”

Slade nodded thoughtfully. He wished he had gotten a look at the six riders who hightailed out of town.

“Aiming to coil your twine here?” the sheriff asked suddenly.

“Maybe, if you’ll promise not to throw me in the calaboose just for the fun of doing it,” Slade answered, with a smile.

“I ain’t promising,” said the sheriff. “Every stranger who ambles in of late either ends up there or ought to. It is a good section for cowhands, though. The spreads hereabouts are always short of help.”

Slade knew that the shrewd old peace officer, despite the persiflage in which he indulged, was covertly studying him and doing a bit of probing. Well, one couldn’t blame him. The Cowboy Capital was a trouble spot. There was no town organization and the affairs and laws of the community were administered by the county officials and it was up to them to try and keep something resembling order. Which was no easy chore and it was not unnatural that all strangers were to an extent suspect.

Slade’s meal arrived and there followed a period of busy silence. Finally the sheriff pushed back his empty plate with a sigh of contentment. He hauled out a black pipe and stuffed it with tobacco. When the steamer was going to his satisfaction, he spoke—

“So John Davenport sent you over here, eh? Why?”

Slade regarded him for a moment. He liked the old fellow’s looks, felt that he was trustworthy, not exactly stupid and could keep a tight latigo on his jaw. He decided to take him into his confidence, to an extent.

“Sheriff,” he said, “did you ever hear of Veck Sosna?”

The sheriff’s eyes widened. “Why, I reckon I have,” he admitted. “He was the pack leader of the Comachero outlaws who raised heck in the Canadian River Valley and up around the Oklahoma Border a few years back. Yep, I heard of him; I was a deputy in those days. Why?”

“Because,” Slade replied, “I have reason to believe that Sosna has returned to his old stamping grounds and has organized a following—he’s a genius at that.”

The sheriff jumped in his chair. “The devil you say!” he sputtered. “As if I didn’t have enough on my hands! I—” his voice died away and he stared at Slade. Then he glanced around, leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“I’ve got you placed at last!” he said. “Been trying to figure it since I first clapped eyes on you. Now I’ve got it. You’re El Halcón!”

“Been called that,” Slade admitted composedly.

The sheriff gave a hollow groan. “Trouble, trouble, trouble!” he lamented. “Why’d you have to come here? Everybody knows trouble just follows you around.”

“Perhaps you’ll have less by the time I’m ready to leave,” Slade replied.

“That’s plumb sure for certain,” the sheriff declared, with fervor. “Yes, sir, sure as the sun rising in the morning. And you’re looking for Sosna?”

“Well, I’ve chased him all over Texas and Mexico,” Slade said. “Thought a couple of times I’d gotten rid of him for good, but he’s got more lives than a cat and has always managed to survive.”

“Uh-huh, I’ve heard of the feud between you two hellions,” growled the sheriff. “Maybe you’ll finish each other off,” he added hopefully.

“I hope you’re wrong about that,” Slade smiled. “I’d sure hate to have to keep on chasing Veck Sosna through eternity.”

Sheriff Carter chuckled. “Reckon you must feel sort of that way about it,” he conceded. “But mavericking around as El Halcón, an owlhoot too smart to get caught, will end up getting you in trouble. Oh, I know there are no reward notices out for you—I’ve heard that discussed—but give a dog a bad name—”

“First you have to drop a loop on the dog,” Slade smiled.

“Oh, you’re too darn smart for me to arg’fy with,” snorted the sheriff. “But about Sosna, you really think he might show up here in Amarillo?”

“I’ve been wondering if he hasn’t already shown up,” Slade answered.

“Now what the devil do you mean by that?” demanded Carter.

“Nothing much, except I wish I’d gotten a good look at those hellions you chased out of town,” Slade said. “Somehow it seemed to me that antic had the Sosna touch; I just can’t help wondering a mite.”

Sheriff Carter tugged his mustache and frowned. Abruptly he stood up.

“You stay right here,” he said. “I’m going to mosey around and see if I can learn anything.” He stalked to the bar and engaged the head bartender in conversation. Slade relaxed comfortably in his chair and rolled another cigarette. Things appeared to be working out rather better than he had hoped for. And that once again his El Halcón reputation was going to pay off. The sheriff, no doubt, considered him the lesser of two evils and would be glad to pit El Halcón, “the singingest man in the whole Southwest, with the fastest gunhand,” against the devilish Sosna whose name was a byword throughout the Texas Panhandle country for ruthlessness, devilish ingenuity and sadistic cruelty. And, as the sheriff said, if the hellions did for each other, well—

Not that he really believed the old peace officer was that callous where human life was concerned. Just a subconscious assumption that in such an event his troubles would be lessened.

Due to his habit of working under cover whenever possible and often not revealing his Ranger connections, Walt Slade had built up a peculiar dual reputation. Those who knew the truth insisted vigorously that he was not only the most fearless but the most capable of the Rangers. Others, who knew him only as El Halcón, were wont to declare just as vigorously that he was just a blasted owlhoot too smart to get caught but who would get his comeuppance sooner or later.

Captain Jim McNelty, the famous Commander of the Border Battalion of the Texas Rangers, knew well that the deception laid Slade open to grave personal danger at the hands of some triggernervous marshal or deputy, to say nothing of professional gunslingers out to get a reputation by downing the notorious El Halcón and not above shooting in the back as a means to their end.

But he was forced to admit that the deception paid off at times, that outlaws, doubtless believing they had but one of their own brand and a lone wolf seeking to horn in on somebody else’s good thing to deal with would at times grow careless, to Slade’s advantage. Also that avenues of information were open to him that would have been closed to a known Ranger. So Captain Jim would growl and fuss but not actually forbid his lieutenant and ace man to continue the deception, allowing Slade to go his own cheerful way with little thought for the danger involved and with confidence in the future.

Among those who did not know the truth, Slade had champions as well as detractors. “Sure he’s cashed in a lot of hellions, but just show me one that didn’t have a killing long overdue. That’s a chore for the sheriffs and marshals, you say? Huh! it’s a chore for any decent and law-abiding citizen. More power to him!”

And the Mexican peons would say, “El Halcón! the friend of the lowly, of all who are wronged or sorrow or are oppressed. El Halcón, who walks in the shadow of God’s hand!”

And Walt Slade felt he could presume to no higher accolade than that.

Sheriff Carter circulated for some time before returning to the table. Drawing up his chair, he beckoned a waiter and ordered a couple of snorts.

“Well, I think I learned something,” he said. “Seems those six jiggers came in and lined up at the bar. Civil spoken and quiet and looked to be well behaved. After a bit a couple of them started watching a poker game and were invited to sit in. There were a couple of tinhorns in that game who’ve been hanging around here for a spell, and I’ve a notion one of ’em did pull something off-color. Anyhow, a row started and guns began to smoke. Swivel-eye Sanders, the owner, told me that one of the men at the bar, a big, tall and broad jigger with bright black eyes, did most of the shooting. Swivel-eye said he never saw such gun handling. Said it looked like to him that the big feller didn’t shoot to kill, just to cripple.”

“A wounded man can kick up more confusion than a dead one,” Slade interpolated. “And throw more folks off balance.”

“Guess that’s right,” the sheriff agreed. “Well, Swivel-eye said the big feller let out a beller and all six headed for the door, shooting over their shoulders. Guess everybody was too busy ducking to shoot back much. Out they went and piled onto their bronks, still shooting back over their shoulders. I got here just about then and cut loose with my scattergun, but the range was over-great for a sawed-off and I reckon I didn’t do much good. Those two tinhorns, incidentally, after Doc Beard patched ’em up, they didn’t come back here. Which makes me think they really did do a little chore of cold-deckin’. They picked the wrong crowd to try and slide one over on. What do you think?”

“I think,” Slade replied slowly, “that it really was Sosna and some of his bunch; that shooting only to wound sounds like a bit of the Sosna quick thinking—he always seems to do the right thing. Did Swivel-eye or anybody mention what the others of the bunch looked like?”

“Uh-huh, the bartender said they struck him as having Indian blood.”

Slade nodded. “Some of the Comancheros, I’ve a notion,” he said. “Most all of them have a dash of Comanche.”

“And the Comanches are the toughest and smartest of the Texas Indians,” growled the sheriff. “Mean Indian and mean white! What a combination!”

“Yes, they seem to have inherited all the vices and none of the virtues of both races,” Slade commented. Suddenly a thought struck him.

“I believe you mentioned the big fellow shouting an order,” he remarked.

“Uh-huh, Swivel-eye said he let out a beller,” the sheriff nodded.

“Call Swivel-eye over,” Slade suggested. “I’d like to ask him a question or two.”

Carter stood up, caught the owner’s attention and beckoned.

Sanders, big and bony and burly, lumbered over to the table and Slade realized how he came by his peculiar nickname. His eyes were quite remarkable. One eyelid hung continually lower than the other, thus lending to his otherwise rather saturnine face an air of droll and unexpected waggery. He seemed to glower with one eye and leer jocosely with the other. But he had a good nose and his mouth was well shaped. Slade figured him to be okay.

“This gent would like to ask you a question, Swivel,” said the sheriff.

“Shoot,” replied Swivel, one eye regarding Slade seriously, the other with whimsical humor.

“Mr. Sanders,” Slade said, “I believe you mentioned to Sheriff Carter that you heard the tall member of the bunch who started the trouble here shouting an order to the others. Do you recall anything peculiar about his voice?”

“Yes, I did,” Swivel-eye conceded. “Sorta unusual voice—sounded like it had bells in it.”

“Thank you,” Slade said and did not comment further.

“I’ll send over a snort,” said Swivel-eye and headed back to the far end of the bar.

“Well?” the sheriff asked, gazing curiously at El Halcón.

“It was Sosna, all right,” Slade said. “He has the kind of a voice that once you hear you never forget. Swivel-eye described it quite aptly when he said it sounded like it had bells in it. It does have bell tones. Yes, as I said before, that antic, if it’s the right word for it, had the Sosna touch.”

Just about that time, had the sheriff and Slade known it, another “antic” was building up that most certainly had the Sosna touch.